Left Behind
by Mockorange7
Summary: Omi goes to school. Things forgotten, and other things realized. All four of the Weiss boys make an appearance, but this fic is a bit Omicentric. My first WK fic—now completed. Comments welcome. Rating is for some profanity.


_**Left Behind**_

_Part 1 of 1_

_By Mockorange7_

* * *

_PLEASE do not archive, print, or post anywhere else without permission—please e-mail me and ask first. _

_Disclaimer: These characters and this universe are not mine, I didn't create them, and their owners still own them. I'm just borrowing. _

_Rating & Spoilers: Rated M for language, and there are spoilers. You've been warned._

_Summary: Omi goes to school. Things forgotten, and other things realized. All four of the Weiss boys make an appearance. No pairing. My first WK fic—now completed._

_Comments are most welcome. Thanks for reading._

* * *

It wasn't supposed to happen like that.

It had started out, a day like any other. He'd woken up, eaten breakfast. Surfed the net, looking for something – a hunch to follow up on, that he thought could shed some light on the evening's mission – followed by Aya's voice, telling him he better eat something now or he was going to be late – followed by him obediently going upstairs and eating something, because it wasn't like Aya's voice really implied any kind of choice – followed by school. Classes, and girls wearing perfume and lipstick and shiny, glossy hair—and classes, and teachers, and a pop quiz, and an annoying jerk calling him a wuss and a glorious vision of how the idiot would look before he fell if he stuck him with the new kind of curved dart he'd just gotten before realizing that nice boys weren't supposed to know or think about stuff like that—followed by the knowledge that he'd never be nice or even normal. More classes, done by rote: easy marks, easy smiles, because he wasn't just Omi, eleventh grader; but Takatori, and Bombay, and Weiss, and he'd almost forgotten that Omi was just a mask for what he really was.

Followed by coming home, and working the late afternoon shift in the shop, smiling and flirting and chatting and adding up the numbers in the till, trying to distract, distract, distract himself and everyone else, until Yohji's hand came down gently on his shoulder and told him it was enough for today, and he had an hour or two before they had to get ready for the mission tonight, and a flash of near panic at the idea of an hour or two that he didn't have to do _something_, until he offered to make dinner, and then it was okay again.

Missed the flash of sadness in the green eyes, that didn't miss the brief look of panic in the sky-blue. Entirely missed the look of understanding that was exchanged with the darker blue-violet ones over his head.

Making dinner—soup and grilled fish--and teasing Ken, and then Yohji, and finally Aya, because he couldn't leave Aya out, because he just _couldn't_, because it seemed _mean_, even when Aya glared at him like he was imagining his death at the end of his blade, and even when Omi almost believed that he really might be.

Not realizing exactly how it might feel to be bleeding at the end of someone's blade, because in all his years of being with Kritiker, he hadn't. Not yet. He'd seen the others get injured—Ken and Yohji and Aya, all at various points having been shot or stabbed or otherwise wounded—but never him. Never Bombay.

Never Omi.

And it hurt.

It hurt, and he couldn't breathe, couldn't even speak for the pain, although he wanted to. Wanted to speak, wanted to scream, wanted to beg or plead or bargain for mercy, for help, for anything but to get the knife out of him, and away, and to make it stop burning/throbbing/searing ...

Saw cold grey eyes in front of him, before his vision dimmed, and he wondered how he could have messed up so badly, thought of how angry the others would be, and then he felt himself fall.

Everything stopped. Everything stopped, and then everything became pain. He couldn't remember what he'd been doing, or where he was, or why. He didn't recognize the voices around him, if they were there to help or hurt or kill, and then there were hands on him and he thought he heard someone scream, and really wished they would stop, because the sound was horrible, high-pitched and grating, like a cat being slowly killed, and it made his ears and head and throat hurt even more than they already did.

Gradually, his mind cleared, and the pain receded, swallowed by a soft, dark, numbing cold. He could hear the rumble of an engine, the movement of a motor, the steady beat of a heart. Breathing hurt, and he had to think about it to do it, and wasn't sure he was that interested in it anyway. He was lying half upright on the seat, propped up, leaning against soft leather; soft, cold leather against his cheek, and he was so cold, teeth clenched tight and jaw aching against the pain and cold, so cold he needed to shiver, except any movement brought pain and he was glad he couldn't shiver right now.

He coughed, and couldn't think of anything but the pain and the taste of blood.

Someone was calling his name. Ken.

"Omi? It's going to be ok. It's going to be ok. Just hang on. Hang on for us, ok? We're going to get you to a hospital, and they're going to take real good care of you. So you just hang on, ok?"

He opened his eyes, and it was dark. Brief flashes of light lit the interior at jolting intervals and it was making him nauseous. The front of his shirt was damp. "Ken?" he tried to say, but he couldn't really make out the sound he made, and wasn't sure if he'd been understood.

The arm around him tightened as the car lurched crazily around a curve. They were in Aya's Porsche. They were in Aya-kun's Porsche, that precious, precious car that Aya kept so clean and sparkling, and in which he wasn't usually even allowed to sit except in special circumstances, and he wanted to tell Ken that Aya needed to stop, needed to stop right now because he felt really sick, and Aya would kill him if he threw up all over that perfect butter-soft leather interior, but he couldn't get his mouth and tongue to form the words, and all that came out were gasping moans, and from the look on Ken's face, he could tell Ken couldn't understand him at all.

"Omittchi, don't try to talk right now, ok? We'll be at the hospital soon, and you'll feel better soon, I promise. Just hang on." Yohji's smooth, calming voice, not like the panicky pleas that Ken kept whispering over and over, and he could feel his anxiety fade slightly. But what about Aya's car, he wanted to ask? He was sure he had been bleeding, and he didn't want to be bleeding in Aya's car--he saved all his money, but a large part of it had been saved for school, if Kritiker would let him go, and he didn't think he could get all the blood out and it would be really expensive to get it professionally cleaned ... and then the car lurched again and he couldn't stop the nausea from taking over, and he was throwing up and Ken was still holding onto him so he didn't fall but the pain had broken through the cold and then the black was taking over ...

He was in a room with really bright lights, and they hurt his eyes, and there were a lot of unfamiliar voices and a lot of jostling and he couldn't move and he didn't like it. He didn't like it, at all, and he had always hated confined spaces, always hated being restrained in any way, and he wanted to struggle away, wanted them all to leave him alone ...

He woke in a room with soft lighting and quiet voices he recognized and a rough hand holding his. Aya. He could feel the calluses of Aya's sword-hand, rougher than either Ken's or Yohji's. He tightened his fingers around that hand. "I ..." he tried to say, but his throat was dry, and his thoughts were scattered, and it was very difficult to form words that meant something.

Someone held his head up and tilted a glass to his lips, and he sipped cautiously at it. Water, and it had never tasted so good. He gulped, or tried to gulp, and the glass was taken away and he made a noise halfway between an angry cry and a whine. "Slowly, Omi," commanded the Weiss leader, in that clipped voice that didn't leave much room for argument. But after a few small sips, he was too tired to really want to drink any more anyway; his eyes slipped closed and the glass was removed, and his head lowered gently back down to the pillow.

"Go back to sleep Omi," ordered Aya's voice, and he would, but not before saying what he had been trying to say in the first place.

"Sorry about your car, Aya," he whispered, "I didn't mean to mess it up, I'll ..." But he couldn't stay awake long enough to finish the rest of his sentence.

* * *

Aya shook his head at the sleeping teen--who had been babbling something about cars, of all things--before he finally succumbed to the drugs--pale hair and pale skin so small against the sheets. He gently laid the small hand on top of the white sheets as he rose to look out the window, rising sun illuminating the quietly stirring city below.

It wasn't supposed to happen like that.

He was in charge of the missions, had been since he'd joined Weiss, almost two years ago, and he'd made sure. Checked and double-checked, as did Omi, and he'd relied on the youngest Weiss member more than he likely should. There was little information Omi didn't know or couldn't find out about a mission, and he often had insightful hunches based equally on experience as on that razor-sharp intelligence that, despite or even factoring in an allowance for his youth, inevitably proved invaluable. And he was well-aware that the youngest member of the team was also the most experienced at this business of killing that all the members of Weiss did so very well.

But Omi had been distracted. Although last night and this morning he'd been mumbling about something he was checking for the mission, by the time he'd gotten home from school, he'd not mentioned a word, and he'd been... off.

As a team, they'd gotten used to each others' moods—his own, because he made no pretence of hiding when he was annoyed and wanted to be left alone—but the others, as well. Ken, when he was quiet and reflective, which was as out of character for him as it was for Yohji. Or when he was more explosive than the norm, which wasn't even that much harder to discern. Yohji, when he drank or smoked or stayed out even more excessively than he did normally. And Omi, when he was withdrawn or when he chattered non-stop, more than usual.

And Aya couldn't even fool himself. He knew that they all knew—Yohji, especially, was good at figuring it out—when he was in a true fuck off and die mood, and when he was in a 'I want to look like I want you to fuck off and die but I really need the company right now anyway' kind of mood. Usually, despite telling him he wasn't going to take any of Aya's shit, Yohji indulged him anyway. Just like usually, despite telling Yohji he wasn't going to take any more of Yohji's shit, Aya went dutifully down to pick him and the Seven up from whatever dive he happened to be in at whatever pre-dawn hour he'd been pulled from his bed by the drunken voice of Yohji slurring over his cell.

It wasn't a matter, always, of true difference, as much as it was of degree. The kind of degree only those who knew you better than they knew themselves would pick up on.

Just like they'd all known the chibi had been really upset when he'd gotten back from school.

But that didn't change the fact that he should have been more careful. His team—a responsibility he'd assumed, not one given—and therefore his responsibility. He'd known Omi was upset. He'd known, but rather than think through what that might mean, rather than try to focus their youngest member, rather than lecture Omi about sucking it up, he'd tried to ignore it--to let the kid be upset, to not ask if he'd needed to do any further prep for the mission, to give him some time off and treat him gently.

As gently as he would a younger sibling.

As gently as he would have treated his sister Aya, if she'd been home with him, and he hadn't been Weiss, and he'd never known Omi.

And he was well aware, although he mostly tried to ignore it, that Omi was actually younger than Aya-chan. And to be honest, with his soft blond hair and big blue eyes, the boy looked almost as sweet, as innocent, as needing to be protected as his younger sister always had.

But the kid was Weiss. An assassin, for all his pure and innocent looks. Part of a team of assassins. Part of his team. A team that courted death.

A lack of focus could be fatal. A lack of focus could get them killed. Allowing a lack of focus ... was his fault. Allowing a lack of focus had nearly gotten Omi killed.

Even though he'd always ensured Omi was protected during missions; even though he'd always ensured Omi, the one least able to defend himself in a straight physical fight, had been away from the most dangerous areas; even though Omi, the strategist and long-range weapons artist of the team had been covered and in a separate concealed area during this mission; even though they'd had no way of knowing—and who knows if Omi's hunch even, followed up and properly investigated, would have informed them—that the area where Omi was doing recon would be watched so carefully, guarded so thoroughly.

Even taking into account all those things, it was still his fault that this night had ended with the smiling young boy who'd made him dinner scant hours ago, broken and bleeding all over the cold cement floor, screaming in agony and coughing up blood from a throat grown dry and hoarse.

He was Weiss. They all were Weiss, but he was their leader, and that's what he had to be, all the time, before everything. He'd almost forgotten.

It was his fault.

* * *

Ken got the call at a quarter to six, a little more than an hour before he was due to be at the hospital for his shift with Omi anyway.

It wasn't supposed to happen like that.

Omi had been in surgery for hours when they'd brought him in, and they'd all waited until the surgeons came out to say he was in ICU and would remain there until morning, and they could go home. They hadn't. That was when Aya had organized shifts for them all, and not even Yohji mocked or protested.

They'd all been there, through the next morning when Omi had been moved out of the ICU to a step-down unit, all of them pretending not to watch the small body lying still and pale on the hospital cot, broken straps hanging loose around it. Aya had cut the restraints off Omi, both when they found him and again here, knowing how much—whether from knowledge or instinct—the younger boy hated to be restrained in any way. The Magic Bus staff had learned better than to argue with Aya most of the time, and while the bloodied katana got a couple of raised eyebrows, and Aya himself more than a few askance glances, they'd mostly let it go. And when Omi had woken up with a cry, it had been Aya who'd held him still with a gentle hand and Yohji's smooth, soothing voice that had calmed him until he lay quietly again, while Ken glared angrily at anyone who even looked like they had the vaguest thought of asking any of them to leave.

The Magic Bus staff had learnt better than to argue with any of them, really.

They'd hung around most of that day, and Aya took the night shift, although Ken had offered to take it instead. Aya pointed out that Ken was dead on his feet, and while Ken had to admit he was, Aya wasn't much better. The redhead looked as white as a ghost, and blood still streaked the black leather of his coat in macabre patterns.

By the time Ken's shift had rolled around the following morning, Omi seemed much better, sleeping, waking a little, even drinking a bit of water here and there. By the time Yohji had returned for a change of clothes that evening, they were all in good spirits, confident that Omi would be home within the week. Even Aya had seemed more relaxed after a shower and a nap and a change of clothes, and Ken had gone to bed early that night, falling asleep almost immediately.

He was pulled from that desperately needed sleep by the discordant ring of his cell, and Aya's baritone in his ear had been tinny and hoarse and to the point. "_Come to the hospital. Now_."

And Ken had rolled out of bed, pulled on some clothes, and gone.

It was not quite five when he walked into the hospital, parking in the overly expensive hospital parking lot and practically running down the sidewalk into the lobby. The elevator took too long, and he took the stairs two by two, not stopping until he reached Omi's room.

It was dead silent in front of the private room on the end that Kritiker had paid for. Manx had ensured Omi received only the best.

Ken was afraid, for a moment, to go inside. He took a deep breath, and forced himself to open the door.

He walked carefully into the room, almost afraid to look towards the bed. Aya was standing near the window, morning sunlight turning his hair to flame, but when Ken came in, he actually half-smiled at Ken, and Ken felt himself breathe again.

Yohji walked in a few minutes later, hair askew and clothing wrinkled, looking like he hadn't slept at all. Omi had begun to move restlessly, and Yohji walked right up to it and murmured gently at the kid, hand brushing back pale hair. Omi woke up at the touch, slowly blinking up at first Yohji, and then Ken and finally Aya.

"How are you feeling, Omittchi?" asked Yohji gently.

Omi just smiled at them, what would, under normal circumstances have been a cheerful, reassuring smile, but here had an artless, dazed, and somewhat pained quality. Whether he was still hazy from the drugs, trying to evade the question, or whether he simply didn't have the energy to answer, Ken couldn't tell.

"Is it morning?" Omi asked suddenly. "I was going to watch ..."

"It's Monday morning, Omi," Yohji said gently, watching as the boy blinked slowly, trying to understand.

"But ... I ... shouldn't it be Sunday?" Omi stopped, paused, and then asked, "Shouldn't you all be at work?"

Before Yohji could answer either question, Omi's face suddenly brightened.

"Are you all here to take me home?" he asked, looking for all the world like a child who was hoping you were giving him heaven, earth, and the largest box of his favorite candy all at the same time.

Drugs. Messed you up.

"Not yet, _chibi_," replied Yohji, and Omi's eyes darkened for a moment, and the smile slipped, leaving only a scared, tired young boy in pain, irritated at being reminded that he was younger and smaller, and Ken knew then that he'd been trying to evade the question. Omi was a smart, smart kid; smarter than all of them, and smarter than they remembered, half the time.

"Oh."

"But we're going to stay with you until you _can_ come home, Omi," Ken tried to comfort, although he could see the storm brewing in Omi's eyes. Omi didn't want to stay here. Omi wanted to go home. For a kid as good-natured as Omi, he also had a surprisingly bratty streak—not unremarkable when one considered all he'd been through, and all that had been given to him as a result—the independence, the responsibility, the freedom. Omi didn't abuse it most of the time, but he was also used to doing and getting in large part what he wanted, when he wanted.

Even though, right now, Ken couldn't really blame him. He wanted Omi home too. This place made him, had always made him, really nervous and twitchy. And the nurses were mean.

"Besides, I don't think I've gone out with all the nurses in this ward yet," winked Yohji, trying to tease and more importantly avert the imminent temper tantrum, although Ken _had_ seen him hit on a couple of the younger, prettier, less mean ones, so it wasn't even all untrue, "paediatrics has some of the best nurses."

"They put me in paediatrics?" Omi jerked up for a second, winced, and then settled when Aya glared at him.

"Well ... "

"What's going on in here?" One of the meaner, less pretty nurses barged into the room.

"Uh ..."

"One of you called me," snapped the nurse. She was definitely one of the uglier ones.

"He's in pain." Aya jerked his head at the bed. Ken goggled, a little. Not much Aya missed and when he looked closer, Ken could see that Aya was right. Omi's jaw was clenched, and there were lines of pain on his forehead, even as he glared daggers at Aya, who appeared largely indifferent.

Omi's glare, Ken noted idly, was far less effective than the glare Aya had levelled on him just moments ago.

But neither one of them could compete with that nurse. "You lot," she snapped again, glaring at all of them equally, "Out."

And to a man they obeyed, without a word, ignoring the pleading look in large blue eyes.

When Ken returned, slipping in as silently as his training allowed, because this was his shift now and he'd promised Omi that he would stay with him, dammit, Omi was sleeping quietly, in sleep looking pale and exhausted and more fragile than he had before they'd left.

The nurse was still there, cleaning up blood and bandages and stuff Ken didn't even want to think about, even though he'd been injured himself several times, and certainly wasn't squeamish or anything. He was an assassin. He _created_ bloody messes.

She didn't even look up before saying, "When he wakes up, get him to drink a little water, or better yet juice, and maybe eat something if he can. Be firm, but don't force him if he won't."

Ken blinked at her. He was usually unnoticeable when he tried to enter a room as he'd just done, and then he wondered if she actually thought any of them could force Omi into doing anything. He didn't say anything though, just watched her, as she continued to adjust dials and knobs and switches.

"Will ... will he be all right?" Ken asked the question hesitantly, as she looked like she was about to leave, and not only because he was a little scared of the very efficient nurse.

"Time will tell," replied the nurse, not unkindly, and looking at her now, Ken could only see an older woman, tired and worried, as she turned back slightly and gently rearraned his friend's IV arm into a less awkward position on the bed before she quietly left the room.

Ken didn't find her answer all that reassuring.

* * *

It had been the first really warm day of spring, and it was a Saturday. Asuka had wanted to go on a picnic, and she'd cajoled and pleaded and begged until Yohji simply had to cave. And he did.

They'd both known he would.

And it had been a perfect day. The sky was blue, the water was warm, the food was excellent, and Asuka ... Asuka had been, just, herself. Carefree and happy and God, so beautiful. They'd kissed and laughed and relaxed and not worried—not about the business, or the upcoming contract, or anything.

The next contract, which had been one involving a prostitution ring. They'd known it would be tricky, going in, but it was going to pay so well ... so well, Asuka said, that they could pay off the bills and even maybe go away somewhere together for a few days, just the two of them ...

Her body had been so warm, bleeding onto his skin; her body had been broken and warm and her face and she'd been screaming and God, God, God what had they done and she was bleeding ...

Yohji woke with a start, in the hard plastic hospital chair, and stubbed out the cigarette he'd been holding in the overflowing ashtray on the cafeteria table. He rubbed blearily at his eyes.

Aya had sat with him for some time, quietly explaining what had been happening all night, with Omi's lung collapsing again and the rushed surgery and Omi not coming out of the anesthesia right away, and Yohji had put two and two together and concluded that Aya, who had spent too much time already in hospitals waiting for people who had not woken up, had simply freaked out.

Yohji had already gotten the details from a very pretty young nurse, but understood that the normally taciturn younger man needed to talk, and needed to say that the chibi was going to be fine, at least five times, before listening to Yohji's suggestion to get some sleep.

It wasn't supposed to happen like that.

What had he been doing at Omi's age? Chasing girls? Taking exams? Dreaming of fast cars and easy money?

Well, Omi did some of that, he supposed, but ...

It still bothered him. It bothered him to have a kid on the team, even though of all the Weiss members he had the fewest doubts of Omi's capabilities, even though during a mission, he trusted Omi as much as he did any of the others.

But Omi was still a kid. And even though he knew that none of them really deserved to be doing what they were, even though he wondered about the effect this was and could be having on all of their psyches, even after all he'd seen and done, on some deep, almost subconscious level, it still bothered him to be killing alongside someone who, as far as Yohji was concerned, should still be dreaming of girls and cars and worrying about math exams.

He'd chosen this. Aya had chosen this. Ken ... well, Ken was still practically a kid, but somehow, it helped that Ken, at least, had had some time, some time to just be a kid, to be Hidaka Ken, student and talented young soccer player, to have had that time of innocence untarnished, and that Ken had chosen this too.

Omi had had no choice. Omi had been kidnapped, and taken away from the life he could have had. Omi had been training as an assassin since he'd been _ten_. Omi, who could have been, with his quick mind and capacity for hard work, anything he'd ever wanted to be.

And yet Omi was still seemingly innocent, effortlessly happy, constantly helpful, always industrious. Yohji wondered if he knew that they'd all realized—even Aya, who was at times the least perceptive of them all--that at least half of it was an act. Oh, he had no doubt that part of the cheery naivete was Omi's true personality, but how much of it was, and how much of it was a product of circumstance and necessity and Omi's desperate, desperate attempt to simply survive. And yet Omi still amazed Yohji with his capacity still, despite everything, for that sweet, transparent joy, just like that of a very young child. It was the little things that triggered it. Ice cream after a horrible mission. An award at school. A smile from a pretty girl.

And all of them, though Aya at least would never admit it, worked hard to trigger that joy, and tried, in so far as three bitter, broken young men who killed people in their spare time could, to parent him, kind of sort of; to give him a sense of the home and stability they remembered or wished they could—well, Aya more than all of them, really. It was Aya who made sure Omi was up in the morning, got to school on time, asked after his homework, made sure he ate, and wrote him notes when he was too tired or battered—either mentally or physically--after a mission to get to school. Yohji was the one who asked after Omi's day, who covered his evening shift when he was worried about a school project, who listened when Omi wanted to chat about nothing after a particularly horrible mission. And Ken? Ken, who'd known Omi the longest and was the closest to him, was the older brother that Omi should have had—who taught him to play soccer, who took him shopping when he had to get new socks, who played video games with him on Saturday mornings.

And so, even though Omi wasn't that much younger than any of them, he was still the youngest, and the one who most needed to—and the one they all most needed to allow—to cling to what remnants of childhood innocence he could.

And they'd noticed Omi becoming a little less capable, as he learned to trust them: a little less eager to do every chore and offer to do every task; to mess up a little, every now and again, or to be less than impeccably polite every second of the day. It was both annoying and healthy, and so Yohji assumed it balanced out.

None of them were prepared to have their adopted little brother bleed to death on the soft leather seats of Aya's Porsche.

"Yotan?" Omi paused to draw a breath while Yohji turned to him, raising an eyebrow expectantly. "Why did you come back for me?" Omi asked, his voice weak and painful and rasping, and Yohji could think of a dozen answers: Because Aya made me. Because I don't want to plan our missions, and can you imagine if Ken did? Because you make dinner when it's really my turn. Because ...

But all of them, the flip, easy answers, none of them would have answered the question in the chibi's eyes: that look of true amazement, true wonderment, that was asking, seriously, _why_. A question Omi would never have asked had he not been tired, in pain, drugged and still perilously close to the edge of death. An honest question, not hidden under layers of cheer and energy; the question of a boy who had been raised to believe he was expendable—to his parents, who had left him to be killed; to an organization, that had raised him to kill or be killed; to teammates, who would watch as he killed and as, one day, he would be killed.

A question Omi needed the answer to, and Yohji was afraid of what would happen if he got the wrong one.

And Yohji was angry, suddenly, furiously, murderously angry at all of them, and at himself, most of all, for contributing to this for the boy who'd been an adult before he'd finished being a child , and knowing he had no choice; no choice but to let Omi continue to lead this life he'd been living.

But he didn't let it show. He wasn't as good an actor as Omi, but he wasn't unskilled, after all.

"We're teammates Omi. We don't leave each other behind."

"It's not _protocol_," Omi whispered, almost furtively, as if he was afraid someone would hear him and take him back to bleed to death in order to fulfill that stupid protocol.

"Would you have left me behind?"

"That's different! You're an important part of Weiss and Kritiker would care if anything happened to you! You're ..." and then Omi caught himself, not finishing his sentence, and not looking at Yohji.

"And three months ago, when it had been Aya, no one left him behind," continued Yohji gently, after a few moments.

"He's the leader," said Omi stubbornly.

"Ken?"

"Ken's the best in a straight fight."

"So? You're part of the team, Omittchi. You're the strategist, and the intelligence, and even if you weren't, we'd still need you. You're Weiss. You're one of us. You're ..."

"As close as family," said Aya quietly, from the corner of the room where it looked like he'd been sleeping quietly in his chair.

"Closer," said Ken, as intense but sincere as ever, as he strolled in with what looked like the entire contents of the vending machine.

"There you have it. So don't you even think about leaving _us_ behind, you hear?"

Slowly, Omi's pale face broke into a smile. "Hai, Yohji-kun," he nodded. "I hear you."

They were family. They'd almost forgotten. They'd almost let him forget.

Omi's breathing evened out as he slipped into sleep.

* * *

_This was unbeta'd, and this is not my usual fandom, so if you have comments, negative or positive, I'd be more than grateful to hear them. You can also e-mail me at __mockorange7 at yahoo.ca_


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